


Putting Down Roots

by She5los



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Background casphardt, F/F, Growing Old Together, Grumpy Linhardt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, background edelthea, hanahaki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23483665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/She5los/pseuds/She5los
Summary: When Ferdinand sees the little white flowers, he knows he'll take that information to his grave.  He couldn't put that sort of pressure on Hubert, to feel he'd killed him by not returning his feelings.When Hubert sees the petal, he knows he has to have the plant removed.  He would gladly die for Ferdinand, if there was a reason, but he won't sacrifice his life for someone who doesn't love him back.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 25
Kudos: 165





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is maybe the worst time to write hanahaki fic, but I thought of this idea months ago and finally felt like writing it. Please enjoy!

It struck on a rainy winter's day; that was how he remembered it. The first rain they'd had in months, memorable because Ferdinand didn't want to go outside, lest the rain turn to hail, but in the meantime he was grateful for the rain to melt away the low piles of ugly, muddy snow that lay to either side of the outdoor paths around the Palace. It would just as easily turn to ice overnight, making paved pathways treacherous, but at least, Ferdie had been thinking to himself, he would not have to look at the dirty snow anymore if it melted back into the ground.

He knew he had been thinking that because he and Dorothea had been sympathizing about the weather (while unavoidably walking through a small courtyard) when the cough struck. Ferdinand thought nothing of it at the time -- it had been a nasty flu season, and he, himself, had been home for a week and a half with it. But the chest cough that struck him did come as a surprise, all the more when something distinctly  _ not _ made of slime came up his throat. Naturally, he was already turned away from Dorothea and coughing into his handkerchief, but he was glad nobody would see.

Tiny flowers came out into his mouth and he spit them out and folded them inside his handkerchief. The size was lucky -- they shouldn't hurt him too badly as the disease got worse, he thought as he very quickly went from surprise at his condition to planning for the next few months -- and although he could not identify them (Jasmine? Privet?) he was confident he would get another chance. He had watched enough operas to know what this meant.

"Sorry about that," he told Dorothea with a guilty smile. "I suppose I am not as recovered as I thought."

"That sounded bad," she agreed. "See someone about it, okay? No dawdling; I don't want to hear a week from now that you've let it turn into pneumonia."

"You have my word," Ferdinand lied. "You know I get stir-crazy when I am confined like I was; I certainly do not want it to escalate." He swallowed around the sharp feeling in his throat, like the pointed little petals had scratched against it. "You were saying, about Hubert?"

"Oh, only that he actually  _ likes _ this weather," Dorothea supplied, returning to the former tone of their conversation. "So I said to him: maybe  _ you're _ used to the cold weather, being cold-blooded like you are, but we mammals have to keep warm!" They finally came in from the courtyard. Dorothea stomped snow off her shoes and continued complaining about Hubert and the weather and the muddy piles of snow, and Ferdinand's chest felt tighter and tighter until he was able to redirect the conversation to Edelgard and the upcoming ball she was hosting, where she would cement her relationship with Dorothea as something for the world to witness.

"I'm so nervous, Ferdie," Dorothea told him. "You have no idea. If you hadn't offered to help me learn the dances, I might have decided to skip out on my own engagement ball! Oh, I'm just a mess…"

"You are as radiant as ever," Ferdinand assured her. "Bring out some of that opera singer's charm and nobody will be able to resist you. They will see how well your poise and confidence fit the role of Queen of Fódlan, even if you feel no confidence at all! And everybody does love an imperial wedding."

"Flatterer," she accused, smiling. "Oh, I could just about die! Tell me again it was the right choice. I love her so much, Ferdie, but this whole trumped-up, overpublicized process just might do me in!"

Ferdinand's chest felt tight again. He had had only seconds to process the fact that loving Hubert would accomplish what five years of continental war had not. "You need not worry," he assured his friend. "Your etiquette teacher is the one who taught me when I was a child, and I always came across as polite and well-comported when I actually listened to him. Most of the public-facing parts are just putting on a good show, and everyone knows you excel at that! Here, I think this room is free." They took over a small parlor, moving the furniture to the edges of the room so they could practice variations on a quadrille as Ferdinand reminded his friend that, while remembering everything at once was difficult, the component parts of good etiquette were simple and straightforward and they were nothing she was unable to handle.

.-._.-._.-._

The second time, predictably, was during his teatime with Hubert.

They met weekly for coffee and tea and light gossip, to get caught up on each other's lives even when things were hectic. Ferdinand hadn't forgotten his own personal death sentence -- in fact, he had been up late every night for the better part of a week, with no small number of tears shed in the evenings once his work was done and he was alone. But as far as his physical condition went, it hadn't bothered him much until their… their non-date.

"Hubert," Ferdinand greeted as he entered the room. He had looked forward to returning their meetings to the garden. Now, he hoped he would be able to see the Spring blooms one last time.

"Ferdinand. Sit; your tea is almost ready." Hubert glanced at him and then turned a second time to look more carefully. "Are you alright? Your illness isn't returning, is it?"

"I am fully recovered," Ferdinand told him, smiling a bit to mask his weariness. It was far from true -- he would even bet that his prolonged flu symptoms were actually because of the plant that had taken root in his chest without his knowledge -- but he had been lying about his love for Hubert for well over a year, already. It would be unthinkable to stop now. He could never place that sort of burden on Hubert.

The facts, which he had mulled over for many hours rather than getting enough sleep, were these: Ferdinand had a deadly parasite that fed on his unrequited love for his fellow minister. Hubert treated Ferdinand in a favorable and even affectionate way, but no better than he treated their other friends. Therefore, telling Hubert of his disease would change nothing as far as Ferdinand's demise was concerned, but would place undue stress on Hubert, making him feel responsible for feelings he could not be expected to return. Ferdinand would rather die than place that burden on Hubert's shoulders, and in fact, he  _ would _ die rather than do that. He had decided that the most important thing to do was to come up with a plan of action early on and follow it even if he was tempted to do otherwise, so if he was found out and forced to confess his love of Hubert to anybody, he would ask to confide in Linhardt. Linhardt was a great believer in bodily autonomy and would understand the need for privacy Ferdinand felt.

He had already written letters to his fellow ministers, his direct subordinates at his Ministry, and every member of the Black Eagles Strike Force. They would be found upon his death, when somebody went through his effects. In the meantime, it was to be business as usual.

"You look tired," Hubert told him. "Don't tell me you have been letting the unrest in Faerghus get to you."

"It is particularly vexing," Ferdinand conceded to avoid giving away the real reason for his exhaustion. "But it is nearly the weekend. A good ride will do me a world of good." He had always felt better after exercise, and he expected this problem to be no different, at least until the roots in his lungs made him generally breathless and weak. That should take some time, though.

He selected some pastries from the plates set out for them. There was lemon curd for the scones, which was his favorite.

"Do be careful," Hubert warned him. "Be sure to bundle up. There is a cold snap coming."

Hubert's complexion was cold, as it always had been, and he was very striking in the gray winter light. But the tenderness in his gaze was unmistakable. Ferdinand could have drowned in it.

Something in his chest moved and then he was coughing, a horrible fit like before. "Sorry," he managed between coughs. "Swallowed wrong." When it was done, at least a minute later, two more cute, tiny flowers sat in his handkerchief. He took small sips of tea to soothe his throat, tucking handkerchief and flowers into his pocket.

"I suppose you've left those terrible lozenges Linhardt gave you at home," Hubert mused.

"Naturally," Ferdinand told him, smiling a bit shakily. "I just swallowed wrong, Hubert; it was very dramatic, but nothing terrible." The coughing, alone, had irritated his gag reflex. And it was somehow going to get worse? He would have to look up ways to stall it.

Hubert nodded, but looked at the tea Ferdinand was drinking. They both knew it was Almyran pine needle tea, good for fortifying yourself against winter illnesses. Its tartness was a good match for scones with lemon curd, and Ferdinand enjoyed it with very little honey. He kept up healthy habits, when he could, and a bout of coughing while eating a crumbly pastry would have caused no alarm whatsoever if he had not just recovered from the flu and if he were not so damnably tired from his horrifying realization a week earlier.

They continued their conversation, and Hubert allowed him to talk about horses (probably out of pity), and teatime was over too soon, just as it always was.

.-._.-._.-._

His Saturday ride was refreshing. The exhilaration cleared his head and renewed his body. The air was crisp and the sky was bright blue with little, wispy clouds. He flew through one of Enbarr's great parks on horseback, wondering if the freezing cold air would help to stall the parasitic plant that was feeding off of him.

He doubted it, but he could hope.

He still had not gotten a specimen he could examine properly, without stuffing it into his pocket for hours first. He caught the barest hint of a scent sometimes, when he was alone, that he was sure must be the flowers: warm and earthy, and related to a scent he knew well, but he was entirely unable to place it.

He knew what it wasn't. He had searched horticulture books in the Palace library for similar flowers. He had found jasmine and privet, as he had suspected, but both flowers had a strong and distinctive scent, and neither smelled like Ferdinand's new companion. It could not be a white variety of daphne because the petals were too long and the scent, again, was entirely wrong. Citrus flowers he dismissed for the same reason.

He had searched flower language books, too, very aware that the symbolism of flowers was informed by the types of longing and relationships that led to particular hanahaki infections. There was precious little for him.

It seemed fitting, even. An unusual flower for an unusual relationship with an unusual man. Still, it was good to go out riding and clear his head of all the thought and research he had done in the last week.

.-._.-._.-._

The fits turned into a more constant  _ feeling _ , an urge to cough or clear his throat that he could usually fight.

Hubert noticed. Hubert noticed everything. Usually, it was one of his great strengths. Now, he just worried over Ferdinand and made things worse. Linhardt approached him and Ferdinand insisted he was alright. Dorothea and Edelgard cornered him at a luncheon where they were supposed to be discussing water rights, and Edelgard forced him to take a long weekend.

The long weekend did not help.

Bernadetta pushed a handmade hat into his hands, even though the cold weather was finally beginning to let up, and barely allowed him to thank her. The Professor asked if there was any work they could take off his hands. And, through it all, Hubert looked at him with those soft, caring eyes and didn't insult him by asking if he was alright.

He was the opposite of alright. He was wasting away. He was diminished. His weekly rides had slowed to a trot, and sometimes even a walk. He became breathless any time he tried to exercise, and was running out of excuses to refuse Caspar's many friendly invitations to spar. He felt small and less-than, and at night, alone, he even felt unlovable.

He was still unable to identify the flower.

.-._.-._.-._

Hubert liked to be reserved about his feelings.

That did not mean, as some people assumed, that he didn't have feelings in the first place. Quite the contrary; he felt deeply and powerfully, no matter how much he wished he didn't. At times, like when he was able to devote himself fully to his lady's service, it was his greatest strength. At other times, it was a nigh-insurmountable weakness.

Hubert had had a cough for two weeks that didn't seem to be turning into anything else. Edelgard worried over him, but that was her custom even when he was well. He didn't have a fever or any other symptoms that would actually be worrying, and anyway, it was nearly Spring and a mild cold and a nasty flu had both made their way through Enbarr and seemed to be letting up. He wrote it off as allergies.

Until.

He was staying up late again, but for once, he had nothing to do. Whatever was eating up all of Ferdinand's time and energy, he refused to let Hubert help. It wasn't good for Ferdinand, withdrawing like that, but for the past few weeks, he had seemed to always be busy. He would make himself sick if he kept it up, but he was an adult as surely as Hubert was and unsolicited advice was bound to be unwelcome.

This particular night, Hubert reached for a book he hadn't even glanced at in years. Any of the many people who insisted the Minister of the Imperial Household lacked feeling would be hard-pressed to explain why he had held onto a book of poems from his school days. He felt downright sentimental, opening it up again.

He tried not to judge himself as he opened it to the section on love poems. Alone in his room, he read love poetry and touched all the sensitive parts of his body and thought of ginger hair and Summer freckles and embroidered frock-coats, and that guileless laugh when Ferdinand heard a good joke.

His chest clenched. He dropped the book onto the bed next to him as his body was wracked with coughs. He covered his mouth instinctively with his hand; he was coughing something up and didn't want it to land on the sheets. At last, the object came out: a petal.

Well. That changed everything, then.

A petal in his lungs was a death sentence. Hanahaki, though rare, could only end one way. That was what his cough had been: not an allergy, but a reaction to a plant taking root in his lungs. He didn't waste time identifying it; he knew who it was for, and the petal, itself, was a big, white, soft thing. It could have been from a poppy or a particularly floppy-looking rose or any number of other flowers that, nice as they were, he wouldn't want blocking his airway.

There was a surgery for it, but it had a cost: he would lose all memories of Ferdinand, and probably some other memories of their mutual friends. Still, in order to hold onto his life, the cost was well worth it.

He would have to prepare. A week should be plenty of time. Tomorrow, he would inform Ferdinand and Edelgard and schedule the surgery with whatever surgeon Linhardt recommended. He would have to write himself a letter about Ferdinand: who he was, what types of experiences they had shared and honors he had received during the War, the government policy they had worked on together and the plans they had for Fódlan's future. He would surely be briefed on it, regardless, but he would probably appreciate being brought up to speed by none other than himself.

That would be enough. That would be more than enough. What had previously seemed to be an easy, quiet day would now be one of the most difficult of his life.

All because Ferdinand was so beautiful, so kind, so spirited, so amazing.

If you asked Hubert if he cried when he had to choose between death by pining or forgetting the man who was the most precious to him, he would tell you that of course he had upheld his own dignity.

If you asked him if he cried when he made that choice, understanding that, for him, it wasn't even a choice at all, he would have lied to your face.

.-._.-._.-._

The first order of business the next morning, when he was rested and composed, was to schedule a meeting with Edelgard. The Emperor's schedule was one of the many things Hubert oversaw, so he made the request when he went to her suite to prepare her for the day.

Like every day, he knocked on her door and was let in by a footman. He walked to the bedroom, where Edelgard was being dressed by two ladies-in-waiting. He said, "Good morning, Your Majesty," and she responded in kind.

"I would like to request a meeting with you," he told her plainly, before he even began reading her schedule. "Today, if possible."

"I have time right now, don't I?" she asked. She turned to the high-born young ladies who waited on her and said, "Ricah, Laverne, give us some privacy when I'm dressed, will you?" and they nodded and curseyed as Hubert sat down with his scheduling book to list the day's events.

"Council meeting all morning," he reminded her. "Early lunch with Dorothea, the wedding planner, and the seamstress Bernadetta recommended. In the afternoon, sports for no good reason; you have agreed to go riding with Ferdinand and Marianne to discuss strategies for securing the fealty of some of the more stubborn Liecester states."

"I must exercise sometime," El pointed out as she hopped twice to settle her skirt elegantly over the petticoat and cage beneath it.

"I suppose, but it does make this particular day fairly tiring," Hubert shot back. "Anyway, after three, a much more stationary meeting with Count Bergliez, ostensibly about the dam and canal system he's been trying to fund, but more likely so he can complain at you that you won't tear Caspar and Linhardt apart."

"He does like to harp on that," Edelgard agreed. "I forget -- did we decide that our friends are living in shame, or did we decide that, with no woman involved, that was impossible?"

"I'm entirely certain it does not matter," Hubert told her. "They can vacation to Brigid and finalize it if they truly want to, but for the time being, let us just be glad of both of their service to the Empire."

"They can even finalize it here, in eleven months," Edelgard reminded him. "A vacation to Brigid does sound charming, though. After Bergliez?"

"A bit of free time before dinner," Hubert told her. "For once. Dinner should be as usual, and then to the opera with Dorothea and a moderately sized party so your lady-love can whisper sweet nothings in your ear about what a shrike the leading soprano actually is."

Edelgard, fortunately, laughed at that. Hubert cleared his throat -- he must have done it four or five times during their short conversation, but he thought so little of it now -- and smiled warmly at her. "That is your day," he told her. "Plus our conversation when your hair is done."

"Oh, I can do my hair," Edelgard insisted. She took a finished braid from the young lady on her right. "I did it every day on campaign. You, too, Ricah; the Minister has requested privacy." Hubert's lips twitched briefly into a smile as he thought about having Edelgard's undivided attention. He stepped forward as she went to sit at her vanity, taking charge of the braid on the left side of her head as they both waited to hear the door click shut.

"Now, then," Edelgard said when the ladies had shut the door behind them. "Your news? And it had better include getting that cough seen; I know Linhardt would never let it continue if you had gone to him."

"I came to discuss the cough," Hubert told her. Now that it was the moment of confession, his determination had gone somewhere else and he felt cowardly. "It is much worse than I thought."

Edelgard froze with a hairpin half-inserted into her hair. "Worse?" she asked quietly. "How much worse?"

"Hanahaki," Hubert told her. "I will handle it in a week or so, whenever an adequately skilled surgeon is available, but I…" He rolled his shoulders back and breathed in as deeply as the damn plant would allow. "If I could, I would like to request that you be the one to re-orient me when I have lost memories from our childhood and the Academy and the War and… and weekly coffee breaks."

Edelgard stood, the braid Hubert had handled falling loose over her shoulder, and stepped up onto the vanity stool to hug Hubert's head against her shoulder. He didn't resist.

"Ferdinand?" El asked quietly. Hubert nodded. "And you have discussed this with him?"

"I found out last night," Hubert told her. "I will tell him today." He felt his shoulders hunch as he added, "Not to pressure him, you understand; just so he does not think I am suddenly acting… strangely."

Edelgard nodded. "I understand," she told him, her voice wavering. "Hubert?" He nodded to tell her she had his attention. "You're so precious to me. As my friend. You know that, right?" He nodded again. "However this ends up… I'm here for you, Hubert. Whatever support you need while you recover…"

"I know," he told his best friend, his liege. "It might go well. It might be that my feelings for him are rooted in the Academy, or even the War. I might remember, afterward, when we played together as children. But it could also go wrong." He felt hollow, holding tears back that he knew he would never shed. It was his  _ lungs _ they would be carving open. Just thinking about it made his throat tighten.

"They haven't figured out any better treatments?" Edelgard asked. "Well-- I suppose, if they have, the doctor will tell you…"

"I have not heard of any such advances," Hubert told her. "I will, of course, brief you on any updates."

"Do," she said. "You're my best friend, Hubert. Whatever this does to you, that won't change."

"We need to do your hair," Hubert reminded her, and pulled away.

.-._.-._.-._

At the start of the Council meeting, Hubert asked him to meet later. As much as Ferdinand didn't want to be seen by those tender eyes that made his chest ache, he couldn't deny a direct request like that without giving a reason, so he agreed to meet Hubert before lunch.

Hubert, fortunately, was distracted and didn't comment on his exhaustion or his throat trouble. In fact, Hubert had started clearing his throat every few seconds; Ferdinand would have to ensure he saw Linhardt about it before he became too weak to exert his will on his friend.

He thought often about whether he would last long enough to see the flowers bloom again. The daffodil and narcissus stalks were coming up. He hoped he would get to see roses. That should have felt less important than ensuring Hubert took care of himself.

They were two-thirds of the way through a meeting Ferdinand could barely focus on when Edelgard shut the journal in front of her. "I will be entirely frank," she said. "My ministers are ill and I am tired and distracted. I simply do not think it realistic to expect any progress to be made on shipping policy today. Count Bergliez, we will meet this afternoon. Duke Aegir, Marquis Vestra, if I do not hear that you both spent today resting, we will convene our next cabinet meeting without either of you."

Ferdinand sat up straighter, almost missing the poisonous glare Hubert shot at their Emperor. "Our meeting this afternoon with Lady Edmund--" he started, trying to figure out whether he could still engage in affairs of state. His condition would only get worse; was he to be dismissed from service to Adrestia with so little fanfare?

"My secretary will be with us," Edelgard reminded him. "You will be briefed. You have always been a gift to the Empire, Prime Minister; I will expect you to put all your famous energy into resting up until further notice." She squared some papers next to her. "This meeting is adjourned. We shall see how everybody is in two days."

Hubert looked meaningfully at Ferdinand. Ferdie nodded, hoping he was agreeing to have their meeting right then. Dismissed for the rest of the day! It may as well have been for the rest of time! He had hoped to die a martyr, with proper respect given to the pain and difficulty of his disease, but instead, he would be pushed aside like a childhood toy that was no longer wanted.

"I believe we have been indirectly ordered to see Linhardt at once," a deep voice drawled from next to him as he started gathering his things. "If we are not in in his office in… oh, half an hour, I would guess… I think Her Majesty will have even stronger words for us."

"It is not 'working' to have a friendly chat before we go, though," Ferdinand pointed out, and stood to join his friend. "We have often met for leisure; nobody can say we are disobeying orders if we talk for a bit right now."

"I am completely agreed," Hubert said as Ferdinand pushed a sheaf of papers into his bag. "You have seemed so fatigued lately, I would be remiss to ask you to walk halfway across the palace and up three flights of stairs with no rest. We will take it at our own pace."

Ferdinand smiled; Hubert had been tired recently, too, he was sure of it, but he was so much better at hiding how he felt. "Well, then, I shall lead the way," he declared. "Since you see me as some delicate flower." He stood with as much grace as he could with his current weakness and kept his spine straight and proud as he strolled out the door of the meeting hall.

"You will have to allow me to speak first, whenever we find ourselves alone," Hubert remarked casually. "I have essential news for you."

"But not for our fellow ministers?" Ferdinand teased. "My, that certainly is classified!"

"Call it what you like," Hubert conceded. That was a problem they'd been having: Ferdinand was too weary to respond with his usual fire to Hubert's taunts, and Hubert had begun going easy on him to compensate. Thinking about it made his chest clench in a way that had nothing to do with vicious roots digging into his lung tissue.

They walked together in awkward silence until Ferdinand led Hubert into an attractively decorated parlor that nobody was using.

.-._.-._.-._

Ferdinand looked winded after just one flight of stairs and a few hallways, and Hubert was relieved when he led them into a lavish, overdecorated, alarmingly lavender parlor. The beautiful man leaned on the back of a couch and Hubert pretended not to notice how heavily. "Well, Hubert?" he demanded. "You said you would speak first."

Like before, his stomach tied itself in knots, his heart pumped too fast, and his courage drained right out of him. He controlled the urge to cough as Ferdinand looked at him with real, tender concern. The man was just so beautiful. Hubert wouldn't even be able to miss him. "I am going to be… changed at the end of the week," he said, words coming awkwardly when there was no biting remark or sneering question that would do the job. "You know I have been unwell recently, a winter cough like any other. Only, it is unlike anyone else's. Last night, I coughed up a petal."

Ferdinand's shoulders, no, his whole body, tensed in an instant. "Oh, Hubert," he said, no hint of disdain in his voice. He expressed only sympathy. His voice was so warm, Hubert wanted to wrap himself in it like a cloak. "Do you know the type? Who for? Of course I will help you confess your love."

Hubert smirked. "Just like you to make that offer while slowing down a confession," he said. The next part, the part he  _ needed _ to say, was so much harder. "I have already decided to go through with the surgery. I fought for years to preserve my own life, and I will not have it stolen from me by a trick of fate. But, Ferdinand, the person I will forget when the surgery is done is you."

There was a very long pause.

"That is a very cruel trick to play," Ferdinand said, and Hubert only realized when he looked up at the other man that he'd been looking at the floor. Ferdinand was shaking. He looked on the verge of falling over. He looked on the verge of crying. "To say something impossible like that… Who is the real object of your affections? I will help you anyway." The other man coughed a couple times into the elbow of his frock-coat. "Is it Edelgard? Bernadetta, maybe?"

"It is you," Hubert told him again, confused by Ferdinand's disbelief. "Ferdinand, I hope you know I would readily die for you, if there is a purpose. But I refuse to saddle you with guilt for my death. I will be… changed. I will not regard you with the same… I will act very differently toward you. I am not asking anything of you except that you allow the transition to-- Ferdinand?"

Ferdinand was not listening to him. Normally, that would be annoying, but in this instance, the reason Ferdinand wasn't listening to him was that he was choking to death on the floor. Or something.

"Ferdinand!" Hubert said again, and knelt next to him. He put a hand on the other man's back, rubbed up and down as he said, "I am taking you to help. This may be disorienting." Did Ferdinand get motion sickness? Hubert wanted to say no. He hoped he was right as he warped them both to the tower office where Linhardt had set up as the Royal Physician.

Their resident healer-crestologist let out an entirely undignified squawk when the two of them appeared behind him, but Hubert yelled, "No time! He's choking!"

Linhardt leapt into action without questioning, thumping Ferdinand on the back harder than Hubert would have, grabbing him about the stomach in a hold that looked very uncomfortable, all while Hubert fretted uselessly, not even wanting to move in case he interfered with Linhardt's medical assistance.

At last, Ferdinand reached into his own mouth and pulled out a branch of flowers.

It was small, not even the length of Hubert's hand, just a little stick with a root burl at one end and a few large, flat leaves, the stalk blooming furiously with tiny white flowers. Ferdinand continued coughing when it was out, but less urgently, and a quick healing from Linhardt saw him collapsing from his hands and knees to the floor. He smiled, his eyes unfocused, and said, "You see, Hubert? It was impossible that you would confess your love to me." He took in a shuddering breath and tears started to fall down his temples. "Because I was fully prepared to die without telling you so you would not feel guilt at my death." His chest heaved. "I never knew you were braver than me."

Ferdinand couldn't be saying what he thought, but the proof was right there: a branch of flowers, coughed up out of Ferdinand's own lungs. Ferdinand was… Ferdinand was confessing his love, lying on the floor of Linhardt's office.

Hubert felt it, then.

He felt whatever-it-was dislodge, suddenly floating free in his chest. Following Ferdinand's lead, he sunk down to his hands and knees, trying to position himself so his shoulders were lower than his hips as he was overwhelmed by great, wracking coughs. Any help he could get -- from gravity, from Linhardt -- would be more than welcome. There was a dull, but booming, ache in his chest where his own parasite had not yet come out.

He was even less dignified than Ferdinand. His... process... involved horrible gagging noises that he couldn't control even as he made them, and the way the leaves slid through his throat triggered his gag reflex and he nearly threw up onto Linhardt's nice, clean floor. The healing his friend gave him helped, though.

Like Ferdinand had done, Hubert lay down in exhaustion. Probably like Ferdinand, he was asleep in moments.

.-._.-._.-._

Ferdinand woke in a softly lit room. Late morning or early afternoon sunlight came in through a window, but he didn't recognize the room. He recognized the man lying in the next bed from his, though.

Waking up in an infirmary was a familiar enough experience that it didn't make Ferdinand feel panicked or disoriented. It did take a moment, though, for him to remember that the War was well over. But that was where the branches of flowers came in.

In small vases on the table between their beds were small branches with flowers. One was his own, a stalk covered with a dense cluster of familiar tiny white flowers. The other was a tea camellia, recognizable by the distinctive camellia leaves and somewhat disappointing white flower, like seeing wild roses when you were used to tea roses. Unlike Ferdinand's, which was almost entirely in bloom, the camellia had one flower; one large, white bud; and one small bud that still had a green blush.

He smiled at the tea camellia. He had no idea what it meant symbolically, but he was now familiar with every book on flower language in Enbarr. It would be easy to research.

Ferdinand had only had a few moments to think about the flowers and Hubert's affection, and therefore very little time to remember why he'd been unconscious in an infirmary bed, when Linhardt came in with a tray.

"Alright, rise and shine, I have coughing draughts," he announced loudly, and pushed both vases back toward the wall to make room for his tray. "Yes, I know you're tired, and no, I don't care." More quietly, as if it were an aside, he turned to Ferdinand and said, "Oh, good, you were already awake. Drink this." He turned to Ferdinand and handed him a small cup of something thick and syrupy. Obediently, Ferdinand propped himself up on one elbow and accepted it. On drinking, it was not only horribly bitter, but horribly something else, too, something that, surely, could not be named because to name it would be to allow it to exist on Earth. Ferdinand gladly drank the glass of water Linhardt handed him in small sips to rinse the taste from his mouth.

When Hubert was halfway through his glass of water, Linhardt said, "Good, so in ten or twenty minutes, you're both going to feel like you're coughing up a lung and you're going to cough out any remaining flowers so they can't sit around and decompose and give you an infection." Hubert choked on his water. Ferdinand glared at their healer for the lack of warning. "And then you're both going to eat a good,  _ hearty _ lunch and tell me why the fuck you didn't tell me about your life-threatening wasting disease."

Hubert raised his hand as if they were back at the Academy and said, "I have known what it was only since last night and was on my way here to schedule surgery for it. I thought it was just a cough."

Linhardt grimaced. "Alright, you get a pass," he conceded. "But with maybe a little bit of a conversation about that nasty habit you have of assuming no one likes you."

Hubert shrugged, looking smug at putting a lid on Linhardt's excitement. He said simply, "It worked out." A smile played about his lips that Ferdinand wouldn't have read too much into, except that… Except that he had proof in the form of a bedraggled tea camellia sitting on the table next to him.

"Can you tell me," Ferdinand asked, allowing himself to ignore Linhardt for the moment on account of the healer's rudeness (though Linhardt was always rude and Ferdinand would normally think it unfair to expect otherwise), "If you have only known for a day, perhaps you have not looked it up, but is there any chance you know the symbolism of tea camellias?" Camellias in general, Ferdinand knew, were for devotion and adoration, but surely a plant that had never been bred for the beauty of its flowers would hold a slightly different meaning.

Hubert, already sitting up, stiffened about the shoulders and turned to put one foot on the floor. "That is tea?" he asked. "I had not thought to look it up; I just assumed I would be unsuccessful. But it does support my suspicion that…" Hubert got out of bed to pick up the vase holding the flowers that had been plaguing Ferdinand. He smelled them. It was very unsettling to watch him sniff something that had been living in Ferdinand's own lungs not long ago.

"As I suspected," Hubert said. "I cannot absolutely confirm, as I have only seen pictures, but I believe yours is coffee." He coughed into his elbow and sat back down in bed. "Linhardt, I have half a mind to murder you for this."

Ferdinand could feel it, too: an itch in his chest and throat, not painful like the flowers had been, but still very uncomfortable. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and shook wilted little flowers onto the table beside him.

As it turned out, Hubert was still capable of shooting him gentle, feeling looks. Ferdinand teared up thinking of everything he and Hubert would be able to do together. "I had hoped to live to see the Spring flowers," he told the man who was in love with him. "Now, I hope I can stroll past them with you." He coughed very indelicately into his handkerchief. "Linhardt, what is  _ in _ this?"

"An expectorant," Linhardt said. He was lying on the bed closest to the window now, though no sunlight was coming into the room. "The one recommended for either dislodging early cases or ensuring you get all the flowers out from a healed case. Or did you want to bet  _ against _ that coffee branch, or whatever, shedding a dozen or more flowers on its way out?"

"You could at least have given us some warning," Ferdinand insisted. "I have been…" He lowered his voice, embarrassed to say such a thing in front of Hubert. "I have been very weak, Linhardt. I would have appreciated more time to recover from my fit earlier." He purposely avoided looking directly at Hubert.

"Well, you still chose to spring it on me," Linhardt countered, his voice and demeanor deceptively casual. "It isn't every day that two of my closest friends warp into my medical office -- where I was by chance, by the way; I don't just wait around there all day, every day -- seemingly dying of a disease I didn't know either of them had. Speed research isn't really my passion, you know. But, no, you  _ chose _ not to come to me until you were just about dying, so now, have fun with your coughing fit because it should be the last you have to have for some time."

Ferdinand looked again at the stalks on the table. Hubert's camellia only had one flower in bloom, looking scraggly with two of its five petals missing. While the leaves were mature, it was not much longer than Ferdinand's palm. It was preparing to flower more fully, but had not yet reached that stage. 

(No matter; the plant existing at all was proof that Hubert was in love with him.)

Ferdinand's coffee branch, by comparison, was much larger, nearly the length of his hand, with space near the root where flowers had bloomed and detached themselves. The remaining flowers were in full bloom, except for a very few at the end. He wondered what would happen when those flowers withered and crawled up his throat. Would he get some relief, or would that spell the end for him? Would the real problem be an offshoot branch that bloomed in his windpipe? He was too overwhelmed by what-ifs to realize the coughing fit Linhardt had promised had begun until he was reclining on one elbow and his chest was convulsing, trying to push  _ something _ out.

He was used to the feeling, sort of, but it was still horrible.

He heard Linhardt's voice above his head, and felt hands on his shoulders and back, including some hard thumps when he gagged on tiny white flowers. He was vaguely aware that he heard Hubert in the same state, somewhere distant where he wasn't paying any attention. Linhardt had caused it; Linhardt could take care of it. Ferdinand, in his weakened state, focused on staying awake as flowers and petals crawled out of his throat.

When the crisis was over, and Ferdinand and Hubert had had another glass of water each and let Linhardt listen to their breathing and received healings, they were finally able to lie down again. Linhardt excused himself to the next room, with instructions to "yell if anything goes sideways," so in essence, Ferdinand was alone with Hubert and they were both incurably in love with each other.

Ferdinand turned on his side to face the other man. "You love me," he pointed out, grinning. "Elaborate on your love of me." He wondered if he was attractive at all, lying half-clothed in an infirmary bed with his hair all in disarray, weak and tired and probably pale.

Hubert looked back at him, but then looked down at the sheets by his head. He was disheveled, his hair mussed, looking dashing and dramatic in his shirt and black waistcoat. "I never meant to take so much of your time," Hubert said. He looked back up at Ferdinand as he said, "I had intended to just inform you of my plans." He looked away again and added, "I had no romantic confession prepared. I only wanted to ensure you felt no guilt over my situation."

"No guilt!" Ferdinand exclaimed, horrified as he put the pieces of Hubert's confession together. "You would have asked me to meet you as a stranger!"

"Well," Hubert said simply, and shrugged. "I thought you saw me as a friend. Didn't… think you could see me as anything more than a friend. Ferdinand, it is not as simple as things working out because we are in love with each other."

"I will make it that simple," Ferdinand declared without thinking. He would have said anything to ease the tension around Hubert's eyes. Of course Hubert would think it was complicated; he wasn't the one who had decided death would be better.

"There are other factors at play," Hubert insisted. "Like… You would have wasted away for me. Your recent illness, your breathlessness, your weakness… You did that for me, suffered alone for me. And I  _ did _ ask you to let me forget you, and you are as grateful for my sacrifice as I am for yours. These are--"

"These are problems for tomorrow," Ferdinand interrupted. He didn't want to think about Hubert resigning himself to forgetting such a great love. He didn't want to think about incompatibilities that they could overcome together. He yawned, exhausted. "Just tell me how much you love me, and that will be as much as today can handle." He pouted in a way that he hoped was pretty, but that he had not practiced in years. He probably looked ridiculous.

Hubert didn't laugh, at least. Instead, he smiled very tenderly and Ferdinand thought he might have melted into a puddle right then and there if he were not already an overtired, bone-weary mess. "To the moon and back," he mumbled, sounding as near to sleep as Ferdinand felt. "To the stars. To the end of my being."

Ferdinand smiled, feeling fully appeased. Hubert could be goaded into being romantic, if you encouraged him properly. It was about to become Ferdinand's favorite game. "Do you love me as far as the gap between our beds?" he asked.

"What do you see in me?" Hubert asked. The words were rushed, even desperate, like he hadn't meant to say them, or else had to say them quickly to be sure he got them out. "I am not… attractive, or friendly, or even likeable, really, and I just can't think of what you could possibly see in me." His eyes were tense again, changed from gentle tenderness to something much more nervous.

What Hubert apparently didn't understand was that Ferdinand had read plenty of novels and knew exactly how to turn such an inquiry on its head, especially with how weak and sickly he'd been. "For your question to merit an answer, you must first tell me what you see in  _ me," _ Ferdinand countered. "I have been shirking my duties for weeks: avoiding our tea parties, coming to Council meetings only partly prepared, reducing the number of meetings I take off Her Majesty's hands…"

"Another pair of questions to be set aside for tomorrow, then," Hubert conceded. He looked across the aisle between them with such intensity that Ferdinand was once again glad he was already lying down. "We will have very strong words about your willingness to die for me. About the value of a life. But, tomorrow. Today, let's just be glad to be alive." He pulled the light covers over him aside with a few tugs and clambered out of his bed and onto Ferdinand's, settling behind Ferdinand with the sheets between them. Ferdinand reached up to comb his hair so it fell straight over his head, pooling against the headboard, exposing the bit of his neck not covered by his shirt. He fell asleep to the welcome feeling of Hubert kissing the back of his neck and then nuzzling against it.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand and Hubert get engaged and learn how to use their strengths to complement each other's weaknesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love this epilogue. I was mad when my friend helped me realize it would need two timeskips (which is slightly ridiculous for this length of story) but I think it serves the plot well, anyway. It's so nice to think of all the characters in their early fifties with teenage and adult children, doing small yearly celebration rituals they've eased into over the last couple decades.

-Three months later-

Hubert burst into Ferdinand's study with the force and grandeur of an ocean storm. He was usually not  _ quite _ so dramatic, but he was in the habit of glowering and slamming doors when he was overwhelmed, and Ferdinand had practice in not reacting.

"Goodness, Hubert, no need to be so rough on the wallpaper," Ferdinand remarked casually, instead of jumping out of his own skin like he used to during the War.

"You asked Edelgard  _ what?" _ Hubert asked him, which betrayed his emotional state even more than the door slamming; Hubert was beside himself, but whether he was overwhelmed with joy or anger or fear or anything else, Ferdinand had yet to find out. Asking Edelgard to suss out whether Hubert was interested in marriage seemed like a very good decision, if it was impactful enough to make Hubert start a conversation in the middle.

"Well, she seemed the appropriate person to ask," Ferdie pointed out, not looking up. "And you have to admit: while we have been involved only three months, our afternoon teas have been happening for well over a year."

"You-- This is-- You are always so full of dramatics!"

"And yet, I am not the one who slammed the door." Ferdinand couldn't help smiling. If Hubert had no objections ready, after coming all the way from his lunch with Edelgard, that surely meant he was going to say yes.

"Marrying  _ me, _ though! Really, Ferdinand, you always ask me to tell you when you are threatening to choose something in bad taste, and so this is me telling you."

Ferdinand laughed. He finally stood and walked to the middle of his study to meet his lover. "Well, you seemed to have no objections to my calling on you," he pointed out. "And you certainly see nothing improper about calling on me, and have become such a natural part of my house that nobody even stopped you from disturbing me in my study. I was afraid, if I did nothing, that the servants would say I did not intend to make an honest man out of you, and you know how word gets around." He'd thought no such thing, of course -- they had known of each other's affection for only three months -- but his other points still stood.

"I-- often have sour moods," Hubert pointed out. "Like this one. And I work late into the night, frequently. And my devotion will always be to Edelgard first, no matter what you--"

"Hubert." Ferdinand put his hands on Hubert's shoulders, hoping to steady him a bit. "You are falling back onto your own bad habits, my love," he pointed out. Hubert came up with worst-case scenarios as his job, so it was unfortunately easy for him to do the same in his personal life. "Are these your objections, or are they what you imagine my objections should be?"

Hubert just huffed, probably collecting his thoughts.

"Do  _ you _ want to marry  _ me?" _ Ferdinand asked. "That is the only question that you can answer for me right now." He smiled amiably, cutely, in a small attempt to pull Hubert away from his unfounded worries.

"I want it horribly," Hubert murmured. "Flames, Ferdinand, give a man some warning--"

"Then I will have to devise a more exciting time and place to ask if you  _ will _ marry me," Ferdie interrupted again. To rescue Hubert's pride, and to give him a more familiar battle to fight, he said, "Perhaps, when you are more prepared, you will not be thrown into such a violent fit of nerves."

"A fit of nerves? Me? It is beyond considering," Hubert bit back.

"And yet you came to me, straight from your luncheon with Edelgard, slamming doors, unable to form a proper sentence, your cloak all disheveled--"

"--I had a perfectly  _ normal _ reaction to an entirely inappropriate topic of conversation that you should never have had with Edelgard in the first place--"

"--practically begging me to think less of you for no reason at all, pretending it was for my own sake--"

"--when I know you are only realistic when you choose to be, and you have come to rely on me to tell you when your imagination has overstepped your good sense--"

"--when I have only ever been madly in love with you, and would have died for love of you, and my opinion of you has only improved since we became involved!"

"--so it only seemed right for me to-- wait, really?"

Ferdinand grinned. Nodded. Waggled his eyebrows.

Hubert huffed again and said, "You are truly insufferable when you get smug, did you know that? Why does it make me want to kiss you?"

"You could kiss me to find out," Ferdinand challenged.

Hubert smiled, looking very crafty indeed, and said, "I think not, this time. You've had your way too much today."

"Well, then" Ferdinand said, going to sit on his desk, which Hubert had told him filled his head with thoughts of bending Ferdinand over that desk and having his way with him, information Ferdinand used carefully and to great effect, "You will have to tell me your favorite stone instead. One you would be glad to wear on your finger every day." He crossed his legs to show off his cavalier's thighs. Ferdinand had been thinking of peridot, to match his eyes, or perhaps a black opal, normally dark but with a hidden shine. He'd thought extensively about the type of jewelry Hubert liked ever since his conversation with Edelgard. Something simple and black, like onyx or obsidian, simply would not do to represent Ferdinand's affection, but the setting would have to be understated to suit Hubert's aesthetic--

"I fear that would ruin the surprise," Hubert told him. "Thank you for the warning that you wish to exchange rings, though; I will have to find you one flashy enough to see from across a ballroom." Hubert crossed his arms,which of course made him look enticingly stern, so Ferdinand shifted and flexed his thigh muscles.

"We will certainly see how well-suited our rings are," Ferdinand told him. He would loathe a gaudy ring; perhaps he could wear it about his neck, rather than risk the stone falling out if he wore it on his hand. But, hopefully Hubert was just teasing; surely, he knew Ferdinand's boastful overconfidence, his flashy clothing, everything about his public persona was a ploy to direct people's attention to the attributes that he wanted them to see instead of the parts of himself he wanted to hide. It was Hubert who could turn him over like a river rock to see the rich life underneath. It was Hubert who he wanted to trust to make a ring he would actually like. "I will be sure to give you ample time to have it designed and crafted." He hopped down from his desk. "Now, did you have a meeting scheduled this afternoon with Lady Edmund, or am I much mistaken?"

.-._.-._.-._

-One month later-

He proposed during teatime. He had considered all manner of public proposals: at a restaurant, at the opera, at a ball or dinner party… A public proposal would have been right for Ferdinand, would have allowed him to show off his affectionate lover. But Hubert kept his feelings close to his chest, and he wouldn't want any strangers to observe such an important moment.

He picked at his food anxiously until Hubert said, "Are you well? Was your fight with Caspar so terrible? There is a reason he's Captain of the Guard, you know; it would surprise me if you could still beat him as soundly as you used to."

"I am not well," Ferdinand told him, reaching into his pocket. "And I cannot be well until--" he stood and then bent to one knee next to Hubert. "Until you tell me whether you will light up all my days forevermore." He looked Hubert in the eye. The ring he had commissioned was silver with a peridot kept safe in a setting that surrounded it. The outside was hammered white gold and the inside was carved with protection runes. It was understated and purposeful. It matched Hubert's eyes beautifully.

It was a much longer pause than Ferdinand had expected before Hubert said, "I… had prepared what to say. Words are failing me."

"A yes or no will do," Ferdie reminded him.

Hubert nodded. He nodded very insistently and his eyelids flushed red. Ferdinand grinned and removed the ring from its box to place it on Hubert's finger, whereupon Hubert immediately leaned forward and kissed him hard. Then he held Ferdinand's head in front of his, his shining eyes flitting all over Ferdinand's face. "I love you to the end of my life," he said solemnly, and pulled Ferdinand close to him. "I can barely believe you love me back, some days. You will have to ensure I believe it."

"There is a coffee bush under my window that speaks to the depth of my affection for you," Ferdinand pointed out, and couldn't resist leaning up to kiss Hubert's cheek, his eyebrow, the bridge of his nose.

"What a coincidence," Hubert said as he received Ferdinand's kisses. "There is a tea bush in my garden for the same reason. Very small, still, but I have been assured it will grow." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a velvet box. It was the moment Ferdinand had been hoping for. "I thought about whether you should have my family ring," Hubert told him. "Then I figured: if I can barely stand to think of my father, I would not like you to remind me of him." He opened the box. "I thought carnelian would suit you."

Ferdinand's ring was golden and gleaming, set with an entirely moderately-sized ellipse of red stone. Polished instead of faceted, the stone shone more than it glittered, just like the metal around it. Like Hubert's, it came in a setting that was unlikely to fail; unlike Hubert's, the setting swirled around the stone, caressing it. Immediately on seeing it, Ferdinand knew it was the right ring: large enough for his hands, but not large enough to be gaudy; impossible to miss, yet not flashy or overbearing.

Because, like he already knew, Hubert knew him.

"You  _ must _ put it on me immediately," Ferdinand told his lover. "I cannot bear another second when I am not unquestionably yours."

Hubert smiled, small enough it was almost a smirk, and his hands were gentle and cool as he slid the ring onto Ferdinand's finger. It was beautiful there, looking like a perfect match even for Ferdinand's most ostentatious clothes.

They both sat in their own places then, both looking at their rings and pretending they were looking at each other. "The next thing is to set a date," Ferdinand pointed out. "It is a scant few months until Edelgard's wedding, and afterward anybody will be able to marry. We will need time enough to figure out how our properties will be impacted by our marriage."

"Your lawyers will have good advice for that," Hubert pointed out. "You are doing what I did when we learned we were in love and ignoring the current event in favor of planning the next one. Let us simply be engaged for today."

Ferdinand beamed at his lov-- his fiance. "I love to hear that word on your lips," he said. "Tell me again what we are."

Hubert was already smiling. Ferdinand didn't know if he'd ever seen him smile for so long. "We are engaged to be married," he said. "We are fiances."

"Only you know how much this means to me," Ferdinand assured his fiance. He took Hubert's hand in both of his. "I would have died for you, and now I have the enormous pleasure of getting to live for you."

"I would have had to forget you," Hubert whispered.  _ "You _ , the best man I have ever known. And I will get to grow old with you."

Hubert, Ferdinand had learned during the War, was a man who took the actions he deemed sensible and took the emotional fallout of those decisions like punches to the chest. Ferdinand used to get frustrated about it, even angry, but even before they began dating, when they were close friends, he came to understand the toll those decisions took on Hubert, and now he only felt the most tender sympathy for the situation Hubert had almost forced himself into.

"We were both lucky," Ferdinand pointed out. "Lucky for your pragmatism. I will not forget that it saved both our lives." Ferdinand's hand fidgeted with his teacup.

"I am not toasting pragmatism," Hubert grumbled. "I am especially not toasting your conspicuous lack of any self-preservation impulse. Let us toast the emperor in her excellent timing for her own wedding, which will open up marriage to everyone who wishes it and clear the way for us."

"I will not toast the emperor; I toast the emperor at every dinner and soiree I attend," Ferdie retorted. "I would like a special toast for our engagement, if a toast is what you would like. If you will not toast your excellent decision that kept us both alive, and I will not toast Edelgard, excellent as she is, then perhaps we should toast our own foolish hearts that got tired of waiting and gave us the push we needed to confess."

"Ah, but you were very stupid about your disease," Hubert reminded him.

"I was  _ incredibly _ stupid about my disease, but that is hardly the fault of my own body," Ferdinand pointed out. It was almost funny, after months of insisting that he was just stupid about his own case of hanahaki, to hear Hubert repeat his words back at him. "And, anyway, it gave  _ you _ the chance to be the dashing hero to whom I owe my life. If you do want to propose a toast, then let us toast your heroism for that and my good sense in proposing to you, since those are qualities we almost never get to celebrate."

Hubert smiled very warmly, indeed, and said, "I will certainly toast that. To my heroism and your sense."

They clinked cups and took sips of their respective beverages and Hubert said, "Tell me again about how very engaged we are," and Ferdinand launched into a complete rehash of the afternoon's events.

.-._.-._.-._

Hubert entered the greenhouse just barely on time. Nearly thirty years of marriage and he still managed to over-schedule his own anniversary days. He slipped in to find Ferdinand thanking the young woman who had brought the beverage service and thanked her, himself, as she slipped out of the building.

"Hubert! You are just on time," Ferdie told him, greeting him with a smile. "Come, sit. Is that the coffee?"

"Freshly ground," Hubert confirmed, handing his husband the packet he'd brought with him. "How is your day going?"

Ferdinand poured hot water into two teapots, swirled it around, and dumped both into the greenhouse's water reserve. "Much better, now that we are meeting here like this," he admitted. "The morning was hectic, and tonight's dinner will be tiring. I could not be more glad to see you."

"Nor I you," Hubert agreed. "I had to cut my last meeting short just to be here on time." He took his seat and started preparing a scone for Ferdinand. Ferdinand spooned appropriate amounts of tea and coffee into the teapot filters.

"How fares the Emperor's household, my jewel?" Ferdinand asked, teasing with their joint nickname.

"The Emperor's household is well," Hubert told him, though it was no surprise. "I heard yesterday that Petrinka had learned a new, terrifying trick to do from the saddle, and I had the pleasure of seeing it today." He made a mental note to thank their cook for her foresight in putting her lemon curd on the table, tart and bright and exactly to Ferdinand's taste. "As a responsible adult, of course, I was scandalized, but as her uncle, I reminded her that aerial tricks are the pride of any good knight. There were letters, plural, from Bernadina, one for each of her mothers and siblings, and while she is becoming nearly as good of an archer as our Bernie, I highly encourage you to ask Edelgard and Dorothea about this new development separately so you can see for yourself the color their faces turn. Poor little By is pining over an all-new person of the week, and nobody is able to figure out who it is. So, all is well, and normal enough." He put Ferdinand's scone down on his plate, ready for when the drinks were served.

"You have no reason to make fun of pining, today of all days," Ferdinand scolded. "I will refuse to pour your coffee."

"You would never," Hubert challenged, smiling.

Ferdinand shrugged and lifted the lid of the teapot with coffee to stir the floating grounds into the pot.

"Anyway, this is By," Hubert reminded his husband. "He is a scant seventeen years old. He will be fine."

"...You say, as you prepare to drink  _ the breath from my lungs," _ Ferdinand grumbled, but he often liked to play at being more upset than he was.

Hubert smiled and softened his voice to say, "And you will be drinking my fondest memories of you," and let that hang in the air as he handed a miniature cherry tart to Ferdinand for him to nibble contemplatively.

At last, Ferdinand poured the tea and coffee, filtering Hubert's through a second strainer set over the teacup ("just in case"). This preparation was murky instead of clear, but Hubert found he liked it best, even so. He had never gotten more than acceptable at brewing tea, and found no particular pleasure in preparing drinks for people, but he loved seeing Ferdinand focus on coordinating their beverages.

"I believe it is time for your toast," Ferdinand said as he sat down. Hubert tapped his husband's leg with his foot. "Hey! What, will you pretend you do not wish to toast, finally, in this, the start of our twenty-eighth year of marriage?"

"I just can't think what to toast," Hubert lied. He'd thought of what to say a week earlier and it had been so good, he hadn't bothered to revise it. "Your hair? Your eyes? My new gray streaks? Your many layers of freckles?"

"Just do the toast," Ferdie insisted, looking properly embarrassed. "If you are going to insist on it, you can at least give it now, while our drinks are at their most delicious."

Hubert smiled and just  _ looked _ at his husband for a moment. The trees their drinks had come from were now older than either of them had been when they had married, much less than when the plants had nearly killed them both. "To living together," he said as he and Ferdinand raised their delicate teacups and held them up. "To growing together, as surely as our tea and coffee trees did. And to long lives that are as joyful as the ones we're living now." He and Ferdinand clinked their cups against each other and took sips of their tea and coffee, the  _ special _ tea and coffee they drank on their anniversary, and the greenhouse was quiet and warm and quickly filled with the kind of easy conversation they'd enjoyed for decades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
